


Innovations in Managerial Intervention

by Nevanna, NevillesGran



Series: Innovations in Managerial Intervention (Magnusquerade) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Control, Playing Fast and Loose with Vampire Psychic Powers in the Name of Angst and Drama, Possessive Behavior, Vampires, can be read as romantic or platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevanna/pseuds/Nevanna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NevillesGran/pseuds/NevillesGran
Summary: Martin got the Institute as early as was remotely seemly. Jon had ordered him to go home and get some rest and he had, but now dawn was in a couple hours so Jon would be in, soon, and Martin needed to be there with him. He just had to. That was the point of Martin Blackwood.Jon and Martin navigate vampiric enthrallment, and Jon's abilities as related thereto.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims
Series: Innovations in Managerial Intervention (Magnusquerade) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638013
Comments: 15
Kudos: 208
Collections: The_Magnusquerade





	Innovations in Managerial Intervention

Martin got the Institute as early as was remotely seemly. Jon had ordered him to go home and get some rest and he _had_ , but now dawn was in a couple hours so Jon would be in, soon, and Martin needed to be there with him. He just had to. That was the point of Martin Blackwood. And if he got some work done first and showed Jon, maybe his master would stop being angry and let him stay (like Martin _had_ to). 

He barely did anything. He couldn’t focus. Jon was somewhere and Martin could barely even feel him and what if he was hungry? What if he wanted Martin and Martin wasn’t there?

He ended up hovering anxiously in the lobby with a mug full of fresh blood. It wasn’t nearly as good, slicing his own wrist open, not at _all_ as good as when Jon bit him, but it was _for_ Jon and that had to be enough. 

He had to race back downstairs to heat it up, once, in the microwave, dancing impatiently from foot to foot the whole time. His fear was _right_ , too: when he got back to the lobby, as quickly as possible without spilling the blood, Jon was stepping in the door, keys in hand.

Something in Martin settled just at the sight of him, and settled more at Jon’s automatic Sight of him, brushing against Martin’s mind, warm and wonderful. The rest of him still jittered.

"I made you something to drink," Martin said, offering the mug. He was rewarded by Jon taking a deep sniff, the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes.

"Is that a new—"

Then he stepped back, expression twisted, budding affirmation cut off in an abrupt wave of disgust. "Oh. Blood."

Martin wanted to cry. "I'm sorry. I should have known, you'd want it properly fresh. Here—"

He stepped forward with his throat bared, shoving the shameful microwaved blood behind his back. His step felt wobbly; between yesterday's feeding and the mugful this morning, he knew he wasn't much to look at. No wonder Jon didn't want him—

And Jon _didn't_ want him. He took another step back, looking horrified.

"I'm sorry," Martin gasped, and now the tears started streaming out. Barely a week into being Jon’s thrall and he’d already ruined it. "How can I– Is there anything I can do, please, so you'll take me back? Please just tell me what to do. _Please_."

Jon looked stricken, which meant Martin had just failed even more, which meant he cried harder, which meant—inexplicably, miraculously—that his master's arms were suddenly around him, thin but strong, and his head was tucked (a fair way down) into Jon's shoulder (a mocking inversion of what should be). "Oh god, no, Martin,” Jon was saying, “you're, you're doing great, okay, you're doing more—that is, I'm very, erm, pleased with you."

It came with a wave of possessive affection that made Martin cry all the harder, undeserving as he was, and with an undertone of guilt that he didn't understand.

Jon swiveled his neck, looking for anyone who might see them in the lobby, and Martin did his best to stop crying, to stop embarrassing him. There was no one else here, they had both come in even before Elias, but clearly it mattered.

"Shh, no, Martin, it's okay. You can– cry if you want. You're doing exactly what I want." Jon stroked his back and it felt like home. There was a terrible dry twist in his voice but his Sight was close against Martin's mind, the knowledge he gave Martin adamant that he didn't blame Martin for anything. It felt like so long since he'd been blessed with that, even though it was only since yesterday.

Except it wasn’t yesterday, not really. Yesterday since Jon had last Looked at him, yes, lovingly peeled through his thoughts and memories. But longer since he had last said Martin was doing well, was pleasing him. Because Martin hadn’t, yesterday: he’d been very bad, which was why Jon was punishing him now. He barely remembered why he’d done it, couldn’t understand at all why he’d ever want to go away—why he’d want to do _anything_ to upset Jon. But he had. It made his stomach roil.

Jon started to pull away again.

“I’m sorry!” Martin cried out. He wanted to cling but he didn’t, because it wasn’t what Jon wanted. “I want to stay with you, please.”

He offered his neck again, the only thing he really had that was worth anything.

"Martin, you're– useful for a number of other reasons." 

But Jon sounded strangled, and he was so unhappy. Martin didn't know what to do.

Jon did, of course. "Come on," he said, and tugged Martin by the arm. "We'll go down to my office and– and sort this out. Somehow."

"Yes, Jon." Martin fell into step behind him, happy to be towed. He wasn't sure what needed sorting out, but Jon would tell him, and then he would do it. He felt more settled already, being here with Jon and following his orders and— 

He was still holding the mug of cooling blood. Jon hadn't told him to throw it out, so he brought it along.

"Sit down," Jon said when they'd reached his office, nudging him toward the visitor's chair. Martin sat and waited for Jon to tell him what to do next.

Jon just paced, anxiety rolling off him until it made the breath catch in Martin's throat and his hands tremble where they clasped the mug in his lap.

"You know I did this to you, right?" Jon said abruptly, wheeling to face him. His face was taut with desperation. "Martin, please tell me you know I– you know that your thoughts are not your own, right now, and that I'm the one who—"

He broke off, guilt slapping against Martin's mind.

Martin tried to think about it, because he didn't want to just parrot the words back at him; that wasn't what Jon wanted. Jon wanted him to say it and mean it.

"I...know that you yelled at me, yesterday," he said slowly. It was hard to think about. A part of him didn't _want_ to think about it. But Jon said to, so there wasn’t a question. "I went out—to investigate a sighting of those delivery...beings—I _left_ , I didn’t even ask– I’m sorry, I– I—”

“It’s okay, Martin.” 

Martin shoved a fist into his mouth to stifle the returning sobs. Jon was right, Jon was always right. But– but it _wasn’t_ okay because Jon looked even paler than death, he held himself so distant that it _had_ to be a punishment, and everything Martin could feel from him was unhappiness and it _hurt_ how much he needed to fix it. To earn the closeness again.

“Just tell me what happened next?”

Martin dropped his fist instantly. “I didn’t find them but I did see someone, who might have been a vampire. So I came back to tell you and you—“ _Tell me what happened next_. He wouldn’t disappoint Jon again. “You were hungry, I wasn’t with you when you were _hungry_ , and you yelled at me for endangering myself and I—“ 

He didn’t know how to curl smaller in the chair _and_ bare his neck; the instincts warred. Worst of all, the memory was blurred; he couldn’t obey completely. 

“I– I think yelled at you back, and tried to- I tried to _leave_ again, even though you hadn’t even drunk anything yet, and then—“ His voice caught but Jon wanted him to _tell what had happened_ , not cry. “And then it was like drowning.”

He pasted on a smile, then, because it was difficult to remember and impossible to describe, but it hadn't been a _good_ experience. Even though it had been Jon drowning him, his master's will smothering every spark—sparks of things that _shouldn't be—_ as he drank his fill. He should be grateful. He was, he was.

"You were right. Of course you were—I don’t _want_ to leave you, ever. I want to stay safe with you, and obey and feed you and be yours. It's what I’m for. You helped me see that."

For a moment, it was easy for the smile to be genuine. He really did have a purpose, and it was the best purpose, and he was fulfilling it right now. He was here with Jon, safe at home, and he'd done what Jon said and maybe Jon would feed on him, soon.

And for a wonderful moment, Jon agreed. His power wrapped around Martin with purring satisfaction, and Martin sighed as he leaned into it, baring his neck and letting his mind drift wherever Jon wanted it to go.

Then all that wonderful warmth was yanked back; Jon was pressed against the opposite wall, wild-eyed. 

"No," he gasped, and his horror screamed into Martin's mind. "No, I don't– I don't want that!"

Everything that had been approaching perfect shattered like crystal. Martin slid off the chair to his knees, knowing he was making it worse just with the tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"

His mouth snapped shut. _Obey_. His master didn't want him talking, being _obnoxious_ ; he just needed to obey, and stay, and feed—

He was still holding the _stupid_ mug of _terrible_ lukewarm blood. He smashed it against the floor, heedless of the spray and debris, and held the jagged remains against the vein in his wrist, raised in mute offering. Jon could See him; Jon could See that he meant it, that'd he'd do _anything_ if his master asked.

Jon stared at him with disgust that washed over Martin like his mother's scorn, like the first time he'd been dumped—like every terrible thing in the world condensed to one unknowably long moment. Then he was on his knees, too, directly in front of Martin, also ignoring the shattered ceramic and blood splatter. He took the remnants of the mug from Martin's unresisting hand, put it down and gently cupped Martin's cheeks in cold, bloodless hands.

"I'm _so_ sorry," he whispered, eyes wide and darkest red and captivating. "Martin, I—"

He closed his eyes, and a very distant part of Martin whined at the loss of that beauty. But he didn't move, or presume anything. He just stayed and waited for Jon to tell him what to do.

When Jon opened his eyes again, they were bright with power, and Martin felt so _loved_ that the tears started to run again. He belonged to Jon and Jon _cared_ for him, because he was precious and moreover he was _good_. He stayed and he obeyed and he fed his master and he was a _good_ thrall, and Jon was proud and satisfied so Martin could be, too, so much that it nearly hurt. He was so content and full of love that he thought he might burst.

"Okay," Jon said softly, still cupping his cheeks. "Is that okay, Martin?" 

"Yes, Jon." Martin stared at him rapturously, and never wanted to look away.

"Okay," Jon repeated. He rose, tugging Martin to his feet—though, the way he sagged and the way Martin felt buoyed up enough to fly, Martin ended up tugging him. 

"We're going to go talk to Elias as soon as he gets in," Jon said once they were up. He sounded tired, and still looked sad.

That was– bad. That was the worst thing possible. But even that thought seemed to bounce off Martin's joy like a feather off a balloon.

"Yes, Jon," he said breathlessly, and pressed closer to his master's chest. "Anything you want."

-

Cool fingers cupped Martin’s chin, and a silky presence—not his master, but not unfamiliar, either—curled around his mind. Maybe he should have been nervous, but Jon was right beside him, Jon loved him and cherished him and would protect him, and that knowledge was stronger and truer than any sliver of terrible memory.

“I won’t deny that I’m impressed, Jon,” Elias was saying, “but if you wanted to show off your latest project, you should have just made an appointment.”

Martin felt a hot burst of anger ( _not at me, not at me,_ please _not at me_ ) from Jon, who shot back, “That’s not why we’re here, and you know it.”

“Oh? Does Martin have a complaint about his new position?” His tone remained professional, but his eyes twinkled with laughter.

Martin shook his head so hard that he got dizzy, and had to lean against Jon even more. It was wonderful.

Elias smiled with human-looking teeth. “Then I don’t see why I shouldn’t get back to my scheduling...”

Jon took a moment to swallow down a growl. “Martin, would you like to explain to Elias what happened yesterday?”

An order? No, just a question. What if Martin didn’t have the answer that he wanted? “Would _you_ like me to?” he asked, unsure if he deserved an answer but knowing that he needed one.

“I would, very much.” Jon filled his voice with certainty and authority. “Go ahead and tell him.”

Martin was so happy to know what Jon wanted, so eager to please him, that he nearly tripped over the words several times. “I tried to do my own investigation, and I barely escaped from one of the Strangers, and Jon didn’t like that. But he didn’t stay angry at me. He’s such a wonderful master. That you for letting him have me.” Elias chuckled but said nothing. “And of course he wanted to feed, to remind me that I belong only to him, and I...” It still made his stomach twist with guilt and confusion, even with Jon right here. “I was bad, I tried to leave again, even though I _love_ feeding him. It’s always wonderful. And I always want to be good.” His voice wobbled. “So he sent me away.”

“You poor thing,” Elias mocked—like it wasn’t Martin’s fault, like Jon was in any way to be judged.

Martin darted another glance at his master, feeling his own smile stretch from shy to beatific again. “He took me back, though. Because I’m being very, very good, now.”

“How precious.” Elias stroked his cheek, took his chin again and tilted it back. Martin was happy to offer his throat, and happy to know that Jon saw it.

“Just look at him, Jon,” Elias murmured. “Look how happy he is, how content to be yours. Do you really want to ruin this?”

It was a moment before Jon replied, and until he did, his gaze was wonderfully hungry. Martin arched toward it. But finally he ground out, past sharpened fangs, “I want _Martin_ back.”

Elias dropped his hands. “Then go get him.”

“ _How?_ ”

Martin shrunk a little closer to his master, under the shield of his anger.

Elias walked away to lean against his desk, sighing like a professor weary of his favorite student. “Jon, you had a great deal of potential even before I turned you. Now, you are both very powerful and very clumsy.” Cold silk brushed through Martin’s mind again. “Look—these are your thoughts, your will. What little of poor Martin is left awake is simply reacting to it. Everything else—thought, memory, feeling—has been smothered.”

“Stop. Touching. Him.” Jon’s fingers dug possessively into Martin’s arm and his rage boiled around them, burning Elias out of even memory. There was only Jon, only ever, and Martin melted blissfully.

The other vampire raised one eyebrow.

And then for the second time, there was _nothing_. Not just cold but _absence_ , where there had been warmth; bareness where there had been shelter. Abandonment where there had been white-hot possession. Jon thrust him away mentally and physically, and Martin stumbled until he hit a bookcase. The terrible sense of _failure_ started to deflate his euphoria.

“Would you like me to do it?” The other—Elias, said softly. Almost kindly.

Martin didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the sound of anything Elias suggested on principle, and he knew that right now, he was being, if not good, then at least better than he had been. He took a terrified, staggering step forward, back to Jon.

His frantic heartbeat slowed as his gaze settled on his master. Jon would make the right choice. It would be right because Jon made it, and Martin would do anything he could to help.

Now, Jon was chewing at his lip (with fangs; it was bleeding) and looking back at Martin, anxiety seeping through their bond. Martin did his best to meet it with all the trust and love Jon had given him, from the marrow of his bones where blood was made.

“Fine,” Jon said finally.

Out of the corner of Martin’s eye, Elias smiled, and then Martin was drowning again.

But this time he wasn’t drowning in Jon, or even in Elias. He drowned in _himself_.

It was much worse.

Every time Martin tried to recover, another wave hit him, sent his mind spinning. Every horrible thing he’d seen since he started working here: the basement of squirming worms, Jane Prentiss’s gurgling coo through his door, dizzying nightmares of a world inside-out, Elias’s smug grin flecked with Martin’s own blood, the shreds of Leitner’s corpse, the strain of hiding his background and pretending that he fit in every single second. Every moment of doubt or loneliness or resentment stretching back to long before: toward his mother or old friends or partners, toward his coworkers or Elias or himself, and _especially_ toward Jon. His rigid, paranoid, sharp-tongued, relentlessly stubborn boss, who didn’t care what or whom he trod over as he searched for answers, who had somehow snared Martin’s devotion despite barely knowing how to be human even before he became a vampire.

Martin felt the full weight of every unhappy, unlovely emotion that he hadn’t needed to feel or even acknowledge when he was wrapped up in warm mindlessness, and it pressed him to his knees. Tears poured from his eyes; his breath came in tiny gasps. Someone touched his shoulder and he jerked away even as his surroundings started to clear—even when he realized it was Jon.

Light and clear, Elias asked, “Satisfied?”

“Is that some sort of a joke?” Jon snarled.

“It looks quite serious to me.”

“You’re trying to prove some sort of point. I can tell. What do you want me to say? That I need you—that I trust you more than I trust myself?”

“Assume anything you like.” That silky, self-satisfied voice. “But you did come to me, Jon. And you can See the result for yourself.”

A huff of frustration, and then Jon was crouching in front of him, saying gently, “Martin, I’m trying not to read your mind, but I need to know if you’re alright.”

It was keep his head ducked or look up and meet Jon’s eyes. Martin groped for the edge of Elias’s desk and, finding it, levered himself up as quickly as possible, looking at no one. The room spun and his knees nearly buckled again. 

“Martin!” Jon had a hand under his elbow in an instant.

Martin shook him off. “I think...I think I need to get back to work.”

“I’m not sure you’re in any condition to…” Jon began.

“Oh, and you know what’s best for me?” Martin snapped. Without thinking about it, he met Jon’s gaze with a glare, and it was (comforting, intoxicating, _hurt—_ ) only for a moment, before Jon looked away, cringing as though he’d been slapped. 

Martin felt a tug of guilt, but nothing like the despair that had torn him to pieces at the thought of disappointing Jon an hour ago.

“You did want him to make his own decisions again,” said Elias, businesslike again. “And I’m sure that there’s still plenty of organization to do in the Archives. You still haven’t rehabilitated it from the mess Gertrude left it in, I believe.”

Jon’s presence was barely a brush against Martin’s mind, but he could watch his master try to collect himself. He opened his mouth and closed it again, fangs receding. One hand twitched forward, and he balled it into a fist and stuffed it in his pocket.

Martin walked out without waiting for him to finish.

-

There was always organization to do. Martin settled himself between the shelves, trying to focus on the routine of _this_ folder in _that_ drawer, _those_ statements in _such_ an order, so that he didn’t have to think about the last 24 hours.

It worked, until Tim poked his head around the corner. “Jon’s not popped out of his coffin yet, then?”

“He’s upstairs with Elias,” Martin said tonelessly. “I expect that he’ll be down soon.”

“Well, I’ll know when he’s at the door,” Tim declared breezily, “because you’ll be holding a cup of tea and wagging your tail.” He pursed his lips. “Or maybe not tea…”

The spray of blood, the edge of something sharp against his wrist, the sense of utter desperation and hopelessness—none of it was even new and not all of it was even from Elias. Martin had never really hurt himself, but only for lack of courage. If only he could be good enough just for once, just for one person—

“Shut _up!_ ” Martin slammed a box back into place so hard that the entire shelf shook ominously. 

Tim took a step back. “Okay. I’ll be hanging out at my desk, pretending to work, if you…” The harsh set of his face softened for a moment. “If you need anything.”

Martin closed his eyes and tried not to burst into hysterical laughter at those words. Yesterday, hours ago, he’d _known_ what he needed, and part of him already missed that soft simplicity, the embrace of Jon’s affection and concern.

Did it exhaust the others to strain and twist against their own bonds, against the temptation to lose themselves? Martin wasn’t sure, but he knew that he could never tell them about this. The only way for them to escape Elias’s grip, even a little bit, was to form blood bonds with Jon, as Martin had. He had a hard time believing that Tim or Melanie would make that choice if they knew what Jon had done, not out of anger or cruelty, but because he cared for and wanted to protect his… someone he _saw_ as his. (That was what had motivated him, right? It had to be.) 

Martin shook his head and reached for another box. Through the door, he could hear Melanie’s and Tim’s raised voices, and Jon’s quieter one.

When he finally emerged, relieved to see that no blood had apparently been shed, he tried to avoid Jon’s gaze. He couldn’t ignore (didn’t want to ignore) the whisper of contact inside his head, quiet and insistent and watching. 

Aloud, all Jon said was, “Martin, I’ve left a statement in your in-tray. I believe that it might provide us with more insights into the Darkness clan. If you would make the time to record it today, please?”

-

At five o’clock, Martin passed by Melanie on his way to the exit. “You’re gone for the day?” she asked.

Martin nodded. He was leaving, as was his right as a salaried employee, and it was fine. 

His day had been terrible and he’d lost nearly two pints of blood in the last two days and he really didn’t want to make small talk right now, but he reflexively fished around for something to say anyway. They were on the same side, or at least they could be, under the protection of the same... “Are you going, too?” he asked. “I mean, has Elias let you…” 

It was the wrong question to even attempt. “Right now, I’d rather deal with him than with whatever’s hanging between the two of _you_ ,” Melanie spat. “You’ve been tiptoeing around each other and sneaking glances all day. Trouble in bloody paradise? Lovers’ tiff? Or did you finally catch up with the rest of the class on being scared and fucking _pissed?_ ”

“I’m not scared of Jon, and I’m _not_ pissed at him,” Martin insisted. At least half of that was true.

Melanie didn’t look convinced. 

“How would you suggest I handle our situation? Bit of targeted violence, maybe?”

“Like you’d ever try,” she sneered. 

“Do you think it’s some sort of failing that I won’t hurt someone I—” He stopped himself abruptly.

“Someone you _serve_ ,” Melanie finished for him. “Because you don’t have a choice.”

“I wish it was that simple,” Martin said. 

The whispers of _it was, it can be, I felt that peace and I could feel it again_ , followed him out the door and all the way home.

-

Martin barely tasted his dinner. He tried to lose himself in computer games and the telly and even his poetry journal, and gave up in frustration each time, with nothing to show for it but a few scribbled metaphors about surrender and the ocean.

During their first year in the Archives, he’d had spent countless evenings alone in his flat, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Jon, or, failing that, riding out whatever fantasy had taken shape in his head. That yearning had become a soft background noise to Martin’s days, sharpening in moments of crisis but not _pulling_ at him like this guilty, restless churn of _he needs me, I need him, we’re not finished_. 

The last time he’d felt this mixture of urgency and despair, he was cowering on this same sofa while Prentiss and her creatures wriggled and hissed outside his door. Trying to fully recall that week was like trying to remember a dream where the pleasant and the horrifying blurred together, but he _could_ remember the inexplicable sensation of needing to return to the Institute. Needing his master. Longing for Elias almost like he now longed for Jon; the only difference was that now he knew exactly what he needed, and why.

When he finally reached for his phone and found Jon’s number, Martin realized what he’d been trying to put it off, second by second. Some of the tension eased when he heard Jon’s cautious greeting ( _he could make it better_ ).

“Are you still at the office?” Martin asked.

“I was waiting to leave until the sun went down, but that was... oh. Quite a while ago, it would appear.” Martin almost smiled: this wasn’t the first time that Jon had surprised himself with how late he’d been working. “Is everything all... I mean, how are…” His tone sharpened. “Is anything the matter? Are you safe?”

“I’m safe, I’m—” Martin couldn’t think of a more honest answer than, “I don’t know.”

“Are you at home? Do you want me to come to you?”

Martin closed his eyes against the sting of tears. “ _Yes_.”

-

Jon must have run, at supernatural speed, because he arrived windswept and much faster than Martin ever had. But not out of breath. Martin was waiting by the door, failing to drink a cup of tea he’d forced himself to make. Jon’s power raked him the instant he opened the door, coursing through his thoughts and prying up the memories of the last hour and a half since he’d left work, and Martin fought the twin reflexes to flinch and to melt bonelessly. 

He lost both battles. He blinked and he was leaning against the coffee table several feet back, legs shaking. He made a decision and sat on the table. Jon was just half a step away, frozen between offering a hand and yanking it back.

Half a step away inside Martin’s flat, of course. It was the first time he’d visited since...Leitner’s murder, but Martin was his thrall, and even the ancient laws of vampiric nature regarded the flat as already belonging to Jon.

 _Drink the tea_ , Martin ordered himself sternly, and obeyed. It was easy, now, with Jon here. His nerves abated; he was safe and in the right place.

“You’re like Xanax,” Martin said idly.

At the same time, Jon blurted, “I’m sorry, Martin, I’m so—what?”

Martin clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh god. I mean.” He lowered it slowly. “Sorry for making you go out of your way…I know you were working, you didn’t need to...”

“It’s my fault,” Jon said firmly. “My fault that you’re…” He gestured vaguely toward Martin, then snatched his hand back as though even that might be an intrusion. 

Martin realized that he’d been unconsciously leaning toward the possible touch, and made himself sit up straight.

With that came the realization that Jon was standing and he was sitting, quite low, so his whole neck was bent up toward Jon as they talked. It just felt natural. 

Jon came to the same conclusion at roughly the same time. While Martin jerked his chin down, Jon’s gaze snapped right, left, above Martin’s head— He sat directly on the floor, folding like a marionette.

For the third time that day, Martin shoved his hand against his mouth. This time, to contain giggles.

“What?” Jon demanded. His Sight flicked against Martin’s mind and then retreated again, with a grimace of effort. “ _What?_ ” he demanded again, scowling like an affronted cat.

It did not help Martin’s giggles. “It’s just—we’re really _bad_ at this.”

“We are, aren’t we.” Jon’s lips curved upward, just slightly. Then they shot back down, and he looked away. “Mostly me. Martin, I am _so_ sorry. I don’t…” He took a deep, unnecessary breath. “I don’t have an excuse. I wish I could promise never to do anything like that again, but I...” HIs voice lowered to a guilty whisper. “I don’t know that I _can_ promise that.”

It was so easy to forgive him. It was _so_ easy. Martin’s beating heart ached for it, and he couldn’t even be sure it was just because some of the blood it pumped was from Jon.

He took a deep, shuddering, necessary breath, and then another sip of tea.

“Whatever Elias did,” Martin said slowly, “it wasn’t...I can still barely stand to– to leave you. More— _tons_ more than before, before you…”

“Did my utmost to break you to my will, just because you dared to actually demonstrate yours.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Martin snapped. “You were hungry, you weren’t thinking straight. It was instinct.” He paused. “It’s a– a territory thing, right? That’s what it seems like in the statements sometimes. Like a wolf or something.”

“Don’t defend me,” Jon snapped back.

Martin flinched guiltily. 

“Fuck. Martin, you don’t need to…” Jon put his head on his knees, arms wrapped around the front of his legs. “It’s...a little like that, I suppose. In conjunction with the hunger, certainly. Sentient, mobile feeding grounds. Otherwise—or, furthermore—you’re just…”

 _Yours_. Martin bit his lip to keep the word in, bit it until it hurt. He didn’t need to wonder if Jon was doing the same. He could smell the blood in the air. (Sweet and tantalizing and red as the apple on the tree.)

Jon raised his head to violently swipe his mouth with one sleeve. His gaze remained fixed downward. “I…”

“...Yes?” Martin prompted, after several seconds of Jon staring at the floor.

“I went over several statements this afternoon,” Jon said in a rush, not raising his gaze. “Trying to find accounts of younger vampires, verify—there’s reason to believe that it will get better naturally. I mean, that I– that I will… The newly turned are the most powerful, almost always, but it fades quickly. So I should be less...dominatingly obnoxious. Even if I can’t get control myself—and I am trying,” he pleaded, and at last he looked up. “You have to believe that I’m trying.”

His eyes were still enough like red wine to be intoxicating. Martin forced himself to look away, to grip his cup and cross his legs and stay firmly seated on the table, rather than slide to his knees and offer his veins again like he was supposed to. It was so _wrong_ to be looking down at his master like this.

“I know,” he said softly. “I do.”

But Jon’s frown just intensified. His Sight flicked out and was bitten back again. He said bitterly, “You’re too calm about this.”

What Martin really was, he was starting to realize, was _tired_. Nearly two pints of blood was a lot more than the human or even slightly-more-than-human body was meant to lose, and it was starting to hit him. 

He ran a hand through his hair, a habit his mother had never managed to glare out of him. “I’m sorry, I just…” He couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his face, but at least it was crooked and wry. “I’m with you, so I’m doing okay, and I’m safe.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice was so hollow that there was almost no sound at all.

“I know,” Martin said, nearly as quietly.

Then he burst out, “I don’t suppose you know if that’s just permanent now? Will anything you tell me to do, forcibly, just add to a pile in my head until I’m…” A broken, useless mess of contradicting orders. A blissfully obedient zombie. He didn’t know which was worse. Except he absolutely did; he just wasn’t sure whether he’d made up his own mind.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see how long it takes you to…pull yourself together.” Jon shook his head, then shook it again more forcibly. “We could– we could ask Elias, I suppose. He could look at you, diagnose you, I suppose—“

“No,” Martin said firmly. 

Jon visibly relaxed. 

Martin gave up and put his cup of cold tea down on a coaster, and slid to the floor. He could lean against the coffee table, at least. 

“Could _you_ …”

“Only if you want me to,” Jon said in a rush.

Martin tried to think clearly. It was absurd, of course, to say no—he might as well deny Jon the right to peruse a book in his own library. He felt Jon’s attention lapping at the edges of his mind, no matter how hard Jon was trying to restrain it; he recalled the metaphor that he’d written down earlier. No one could hold back the tide. And Martin _wanted_ it; he wanted, if not to drown again, then at least to float. 

“Get out,” he said abruptly.

“What?” Jon had been leaning forward, almost ready crawl toward Martin; now he fell back onto his heels.

Martin scrambled to his feet, willing his legs to hold steady. It was surprisingly easy, as was summoning the hard edge of rage. Melanie would be proud.

“Get out. I said, _get out._ ”

“But you’ll—” Jon’s jaw set in dismay and he was on his feet without seeming to move; at the door just as fast. “Right. I’m sorry– I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Wait!” 

Jon froze in the doorway.

Martin wasn’t vampire-fast, but it was only a few steps, and his arms still fell into place like puzzle pieces around Jon’s skinny frame. It still felt like home when Jon automatically hugged him back.

“Thank you,” Martin said, resting his cheek against Jon’s hair. It was soft, if slightly greasy. “I trust you, okay? Maybe it’s a bad decision, but you were going to leave when I told you to, so... I am making a conscious choice, right now, to trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” said Jon, muffled against his shoulder. 

“Maybe not,” Martin allowed. “But it’s my decision, and I’m making it.”

Then he took another deep, fortifying breath, and lost all ability to be confident and composed. It was a good thing Jon didn’t need to breathe, because Martin was gripping him far too tight. “And– and would you stay the night?”

Jon squeezed him back, more carefully. “Of course.” Jon’s smile was slight but Martin could feel it through his shirt, could feel it suffusing his whole being with gentle warmth. “Anything you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment about your favorite line or moment! We feed on them like blood :)


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